


Melody and Harmony

by Bluespartan114



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Mild Fluff, Sherlock's Violin, blowjob, two men one violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 15:42:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluespartan114/pseuds/Bluespartan114
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's bored. So he picks up Sherlock's violin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Melody and Harmony

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always appreciated!

John was bored.

Not the kind of bored Sherlock experienced. You know, the kind of bored that led to bullet wounds in the walls or eyeballs in the microwave—no. It was a general, blasé kind of bored. There was nothing on the telly (nothing that he hadn’t seen a million times or that Sherlock hadn’t ruined for him), he’d already eaten and Sarah was out for the evening. Sherlock was out as well, which probably helped contribute to his boredom. John wasn’t in the kind of mood to go for a wander so he just sat on the couch, not really hearing the talk show playing monotonously in the background. 

Time and time again he found himself scanning the flat, looking for anything that would hold his attention for more than a few minutes. His eyes fell on the bookshelf, a box of puzzle pieces, Sherlock’s violin, and his own laptop. Bah—boring. Although…despite himself, John found his attention being repeatedly drawn back to the instrument cradled in the armchair every couple of minutes. He was sorely tempted to pick it up.

Little known fact about John Watson: he hadn’t just played clarinet, you see. In high school and the first year of Uni he’d dabbled with a couple of stringed instruments, the violin being his favorite (the cello being his second, but he would never admit to that). He’d given the music up during his medical studies but they resurfaced while he was abroad. As it turned out, soldiers found comfort in the tunes that others could play, whether it reminded them of home, or a loved one or even simply gave them comfort and hope. John and a few others in their platoon acquired some instruments and instead of drinking their nights away, they would soothe the nightmares of their brothers-in-arms with instrumental pieces.

If he was absolutely honest with himself, John would acknowledge that he felt a pang of jealousy whenever Sherlock picked up that instrument and started playing. Not only would a duet between the two of them be divine, but the violin received more tender affection than any human being Sherlock ever came into contact with. 

That alone was almost reason enough for John to pick it up, a kind of defiance to show that he deserved some attention too—but he hesitated. It was Sherlock’s. He didn’t feel right holding it in his clumsy hands when the only hands those strings had ever known were delicate and perfect.

Still, each time he looked at it…the urge to pick it up grew stronger. It sat so seductively in the chair Sherlock laid it in before finally retiring at four in the bloody morning.

Ah, Christ. Before he knew what he was doing, Sherlock’s violin was in his hands. John stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure what to do next. Even though there was no one around (Mrs. Hudson was out shopping, presumably) John still felt like he was experiencing one of those nothing-but-underwear-on-the-first-day-of-school dreams. 

He took a moment to admire the piece he held in his hands. The wood was a warm and comfortable weight. Sherlock obviously paid extra special attention in his care of it; there was not a single nick or scratch on the surface. John’s fingers rested delicately on the strings. Surely Sherlock would never know…

A small bar of rosin was spied on the lip of the music stand. John picked it up and a few strokes later, felt the bow was satisfactorily prepared. He drew a soft note across one of the strings. It sang with the voice of an angel. Sherlock’s voice, he thought. John smiled and shook his head, chastising himself for sounding like a besotted teenager. 

With his chin firmly in place on the appropriate rest, he couldn’t help but notice it smelled vaguely of Sherlock (there goes that besotted thing again). A warm fondness crept into his chest and nestled in his heart.

John figured he should start with the scales as a warm-up. That would get his arm and fingers re-accustomed to the motions and placement. Remembering what notes were situated where required a lot of concentration and reliance on muscle memory. John’s tongue made an appearance at the corner of his mouth as he struggled to find his rhythm, repeating the scales just a few more times simply for good measure. 

The bow was starting to slide easier, his fingers moving more confidently.

Twenty minutes slipped by John before he felt he was ready to move on—but to what?

His eyes strayed to the music stand and the assortment of sheets on display. There was some Mozart—of course, John scoffed. What collection was complete without him? Vivaldi (The Four Seasons, what else?) and an untitled, unsigned piece that look unfinished.

Must be Sherlock’s. John pulled it to the front, tucking the others behind so he wouldn’t get distracted. He scanned the work; it didn’t look too complicated. 

John glanced around the flat again. He was still waiting for someone to walk in and catch him playing Sherlock’s violin. Though he felt secure playing, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he shouldn’t be playing. It was only an instrument to be sure, but it was still Sherlock’s.

That was somehow the best part. He—and if this was ever repeated, John swore he would deny it up and down—loved the fact that it was Sherlock’s. It made playing all the more extravagant, like they shared something special (even if Sherlock wasn’t privy to it).

John studied the music carefully, fingering the notes as he went, glancing between the violin and the music. A couple more times and the bow drew the first refrain.

It was exhilarating, beautiful, the feelings surging through John as the world melted around him.

Sherlock was a brilliant composer. John wasn’t quite playing at the set tempo, but his body swayed unconsciously with the speed he set, enjoying the pure thrill.

He had no idea there was anyone else in the room until a sudden warm weight pressed into his back and a deep voice whispered “don’t stop” in his ear.

John tensed, crashing back to reality in a panic, but he did as he was told.

An arm appeared around his right side with another bow clutched in long and delicate fingers. The other hand came from his left, settling itself on the strings just below John’s moving fingers. 

Then they started playing. Together.

Sherlock’s bow sang a breathtaking harmony with John’s melody. He played a deeper, darker sound; the perfect compliment to the animated, chipper mood of John’s. Just like us.

The longer they went on like that the more John became aware of his body melting and relaxing back into Sherlock, who held his weight effortlessly. Without a word, Sherlock’s chin settled on the top of John’s head.

Together they stayed like that, playing Sherlock’s composition, lost in the sound, the tactility, the intensity and the proximity. Their movements were in perfect synch; never colliding, never getting tangled up. John marveled at their sense of unity. It was no wonder they worked so well together in the field. The soldier and the genius. Brawn and brains. 

Reluctantly John drew out the last note, not wanting to stop, and perhaps just a little apprehensive of what could follow. Sherlock relinquished his hold on the violin, but did not step away from John. Instead, his hands dropped to John’s waist and encircled it, still clutching his own bow. He pulled the doctor closer to him. 

John allowed it; he found himself yearning for it. His eyes fluttered shut and he took a breath.

A soft kiss was placed on the side of his neck. It was light—more like a ghosting of lips than anything—but it was definitely there. Shocked, John’s eyes flew open and he made as if to pull away, but Sherlock’s strong arms kept him in place. “W-what—”

Groaning with disappointment, Sherlock set another feather-light kiss against John’s skin. “Must you always ruin the moment?”

“Moment? I—you—we were having a moment?”

“You don’t agree? I find that playing music puts me in a rather amorous state.” His arms tightened around John.

John’s hands came up and grasped them as best they could while still clutching the instrument. The doctor found himself inhaling the scent that was so inherently Sherlock and it made him absolutely dizzy.

“Never took you for the sort to be amorous. Thought you were ‘married to your work?’” John was teasing now, trying to abate the feeling of anticipation in his stomach. 

“I seem to have filed my work away for the time being.” Sherlock trailed kisses up John’s neck before placing a solid one against his temple. “Are you complaining?”

“Oh, God, no,” John said. He could feel Sherlock’s grip slacken when he turned his body to push his front flush with Sherlock’s. John tilted his head up, his lips meeting the detective’s.

Their first kiss was…oh, it was unbelievable. It was like fireworks behind his eyes. John’s head was spinning. He forgot how to breathe. If Sherlock’s arms hadn’t caught hold of his back he was sure he would have melted right into ground, never to be seen again—and he was okay with that.

John wasn’t gay. No. There wasn’t a man who ever struck his fancy as much as a woman but this—this was something different altogether. The more Sherlock’s tongue explored his mouth, the clearer his answer became. 

John was Sherlocked.

Completely and wholly.

The man who put John’s life back together of his own volition. The man who gave him purpose, excitement and made him feel more wanted than anyone ever had. John wanted to give that man anything and everything he deserved and desired. He wanted to be something Sherlock deserved and desired. 

Sherlock’s hands were cupping his face now, thumb gently stroking his cheek. With a soft sigh he broke away, opening his eyes with cat-like graces. “Shall we put the violin away?” he murmured, glancing down at John’s hands.

John couldn’t remember if he vocalized an answer, but he was vaguely aware of Sherlock prying the long-forgotten instrument from his grip. It was lovingly popped up against the arm of the chair where John first picked it up. His head was still spinning and he couldn’t tell if he was dreaming or hallucinating or both.

Sherlock took his hand. John was drowning so far in his heart that he didn’t realize Sherlock was pushing him gently onto the bed until he was surrounded by a soft, fluffy duvet with Sherlock’s lips once again on his own.

This was happening. The man John so admired was running his hands under his jumper. John obligingly sat up so it could be properly removed. Was this what love felt like? Or was it infatuation? Oh, dear—none of that mattered when Sherlock’s tongue flicked over one of his nipples. John groaned, looking down to watch the rosy-red lips encompass the small peak. Sherlock’s eyes were open and when he sensed John’s gaze, they raised to meet it. They were bright and dark both at the same time. Was that—happiness in Sherlock’s expression? Just the idea made John groan with want.

Blunt nails were scratching lightly down John’s sides and he could do little but lose himself to the intoxicating feeling.

Intoxication wasn’t the only thing he was feeling—there was a hint of pride there as well, he realized, when Sherlock started undoing the button on his trousers, never breaking eye-contact. Pride because such an extraordinary man chose him, John Watson, to show his affections to. Sherlock was always so cold, so untouchable that John felt more superior than he probably should. He wanted to keep it to himself and shout it to the world simultaneously.

“Oh, Sherlock,” he moaned loudly when a wet heat slid down the erection that he’d hardly been aware of. The feeling of Sherlock touching him was absolutely overwhelming.

They never looked away from one another. John watched as his cock moved in and out of Sherlock’s deliciously perfect lips. Sherlock’s tongue was doing miraculous tricks around the head and shaft and oh, what wasn’t Sherlock doing to him right now? John fisted his hand in Sherlock’s soft, dark curls, resisting the urge to thrust into that beautiful mouth, even when he was—

“Close, Sherlock. Ah! So—“

Sherlock’s head dipped low, taking John’s cock all the way down. Both hands were stroking John’s outer thighs encouragingly, lovingly, affectionately.

“Sherlock!” John’s back arched off the bed and his fingers tightened in Sherlock’s hair. He groaned as he watched the consulting detective swallow every last drop, his tongue keeping John afloat on the waves of ecstasy. Just when he thought he couldn’t take it anymore, Sherlock stopped and pulled away. His tongue darted out and licked his lips with a satisfied smirk.

John breathed heavily, trying to get his brain to untangle when Sherlock stood and undressed. The doctor stared curiously as Sherlock crawled under the covers, tugging John with him. After a few moments of shifting limbs, they settled with Sherlock clutching John to his chest, eyes closed contentedly. Sighing, John rested his head on Sherlock, listening to the steady beat of his heart and reveling in the feeling of those long fingers playing with his coarse, shaggy hair.

“Sherlock?” John started tentatively. There was still a little unfinished business. Sherlock had given him the greatest blowjob of his life and he wanted to reciprocate.

“Tomorrow, John,” Sherlock sighed, never opening his eyes.

“You don’t want me to…?”

“Tomorrow. We have all the time in the world. Let’s make it last, hm?”

“Yeah,” John agreed, snuggling deep into Sherlock’s embrace, happier than he’d been in ages. 

All because of that violin.


End file.
